Thursday, August 25, 2016

Prose-Cartoon Epic By Adam Engel

Adam Engel lives in NYC, where he studied and taught at several universities, administered corporate systems, published numerous poems, stories, essays, articles and four books, Topiary, Cella Fantastik, and I Hope My Corpse Gives you the Plague, and most recently, root (Oliver Arts & Open Press, 2016).

Blunder Gaze of Cosmic Eye

1.

From Decay

Botched job in the kitchen. The wretched boy refused Death's protocol progression from decay to rot to never-been: and similar trends from which The Strong derive.

2.

None Fulfilled

Ten million stories none fulfilled.

If Past won’t change what is: what is to come? And when?

Patterns of action-movement brought no Be: not much doing: nothing done.

Facsimiles of movement forged by repetition. Much said nothing done.

3.

Plotting Sorts-of-Sit

Plotting sorts-of-sit: derivatives of sat.

Attempts to replicate the rush of musk allure: as-if entranced by potent tinctures of herself.

As-if: yesterday's high.

Enough as-if to lure as Lure itself had lured – long time ago. As-if effused her being and her telling: vernacular of consequence: speech-tick: My-Tale signal: evidence of Self.

Evidence not proof: but still: inspired strong imperatives of Love that Love delighted in repeating.

Each one must explain what makes one one: eventually.

Not yet.

For anyone could understand if anyone would know: that what had been should have been without regret as consequence of might have could have would have been.

Second-guess of deep-absurd: ridiculous in pull-back relative to all that’s been and all who've suffered – and to what extent – the blunder gaze of Cosmic Eye.

Proximity of Home disturbed me to disgust with full intent to mock: possessed of a hate too intimate-revealing of one's first-expose – in awe-repulse – to mute gesture command: of life: of consequence. My virgin score.

9.

Furious Camouflage

I daydreamed more than mere possession: proprioception: saw furious camouflage in membranes of Love’s womb.

So many moments etched on skin distorted to weird and worse by Time: grim patriarch: progenitor of Pain and Loss.

10.

Ghosts Laughed at My Suit

Alone in Love’s botched kitchen I was exhausted.

Ghosts laughed at my suit: poor tired spirits: demented by Night's forced after-death parade through desert-smears of Pain and Loss: to each his own significance and Other.